


but darling, the only thing i ever held sacred was your name in my mouth

by girl0nfire



Category: Captain America (Comics), Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Based on a Tumblr Post, F/M, Inspired by Art, Lipstick & Lip Gloss, Marking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-07
Updated: 2015-12-07
Packaged: 2018-05-05 10:45:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5372441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/girl0nfire/pseuds/girl0nfire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It started out innocently enough.</p>
            </blockquote>





	but darling, the only thing i ever held sacred was your name in my mouth

**Author's Note:**

> Based loosely on [this tumblr post](http://weinersoldier.tumblr.com/post/134703117988/bucky-leaving-lipstick-prints-on-natasha-tho), and this [this fanart](http://shop5.tumblr.com/post/134637355143/buckynatsteve-based-on-this-post).
> 
> Title from [here](http://joetoyes.tumblr.com/post/118252135703/they-say-war-is-hell-so-peace-should-be-holy).

It started out innocently enough.

Date nights, usually, the only time Natasha really bothered to do a full face of makeup if it wasn’t for a cover.  James would sit on the edge of their bed, pretending it took fifteen minutes to tie his tie so he could watch as she sat at the small vanity near the window and lined her eyes, applied her mascara, fussed with her hair.  He’d take another five minutes to tie his shoes, only because he was so easily distracted by the way she spritzed perfume on her pulse points, how she put on her earrings.  She’d catch his eyes in the small mirror, following her as she put a final few pins in her hair, and always, he’d be smiling, brilliant like this was, somehow, his favorite part.

Natasha always saved her lipstick for last, a habit born from more than one date night delayed by a scarlet stain on James’ collar requiring a change of shirt, a blush-pink smear on Natasha’s chin calling for a near-surgical removal and touch up.  By now, she’s gotten into the habit of allowing him a final kiss to satisfy his curiosity before applying the color of her choice  _just_  before they leave, and tonight, it’s a cool-toned crimson, the velvety color of a fresh-cut rose.

And something about it - for the life of her, she couldn’t pinpoint  _what_  - drew him in, his eyes darkening the moment she put it on.  So much so that their cab driver for the evening had required a rather healthy tip once Natasha finally broke away enough to instruct him to turn around and navigate Midtown’s Saturday night traffic to return them home before they’d even reached their destination, a trail of blood-red kisses standing out almost purple against the stubble of James’ jaw when he caught the man’s eyes, sheepish, to pay.

Natasha catches a glimpse of a similar trail down her neck in the mirrored walls of their building’s elevator before James sets on her once more, hardly stopping to press the button for their floor before his lips are on hers again, just-rough and not quite possessive, searching, his hands sliding slowly down her sides.  She’d say it was a _miracle_  that they make it down the hall without toppling over, but they’ve done it several times before, and nothing, not even James at her back, lips wandering up her neck, is enough to break her concentration, at least until the door’s unlocked and she all but hauls him inside.

His tie joins her coat on the tiles of the entryway, followed by his cufflinks and her keys and clutch on the small table near the door; James’ jacket gets draped over the arm of the couch as they pass, Natasha’s palms sliding over the cool fabric of his dress shirt as his hands wing over her ribs, searching blindly for the zipper of her dress.  They take turns, leading the other down the hall toward their bedroom, pausing only to dispose of James’ shirt, his belt, Natasha’s bracelet tucked in the pocket of his slacks for safekeeping before her hands slide inside.  It’s with a deep, nearly-frustrated groan that he bats her hand away so he can peel her dress over her head, stopping to hang it carefully off the bathroom doorknob before he lifts her effortlessly to carry her the final few steps to their bed.

Oh, how he lays her out so carefully, all soft touches and the sort of control no one would think he’d be so fluent in, the muscles of his shoulder standing out in the half-light of their bedroom as he moves over her, grinning.  The stain of her lipstick makes it look almost feral, the starkest of contrasts from the way his hands wander over her thighs so gently, and he must notice the way her expression changes - he  _always does_ , always - because he sits back on his heels for a moment, considering. 

<”No question who I belong to, like this, is there?”>  James brings the back of his left hand up to drag over his lips, the last of the lipstick smearing darker still over the gleaming metal, and as he pulls his hand away, Natasha can see something spark in his eyes, liquid and hot.  He shifts off the bed suddenly, toeing off his shoes and shedding his slacks as he heads toward her vanity, the blinds sending stripes of moonlight over his back as he pauses to retrieve the tube of lipstick she’d left in their hurry to meet the car.  Returning just as quickly, he climbs back onto the bed to hold himself over her again, offering her the small, square black-and-gold tube in his open palm, the edges of his smile sharpening, twisting until they’re filthy, sending a thrill straight down her spine.

<”My turn,”> is all he says, but Natasha understands - of  _course_  she does, because it’s the same shivering feeling she gets when she sees the path her lips have taken over his jaw laid out for her, when she can trace the evidence of just how fully he is  _hers_  with her fingertips. 

There’s something to be said for bearing a mark that you chose.

So she takes the tube from his outstretched palm, uncapping it before cupping his jaw with her free hand and stroking the pad of her thumb over the swell of his bottom lip, already kiss-bitten and flushed red.  He holds her gaze as she swipes the lipstick carefully over his lips, pausing to drag her thumb over the corner of his mouth to clean up the edge, prolong the moment - 

<”Who do I belong to, then?”> it could be a taunt, if it wasn’t carried on a nearly-breathless sound, if there wasn’t so much untold intention behind it.  Natasha doesn’t even need to be told the answer, because she knows it already.

One of the few, most everlasting true things.  She just  _knows_.

James allows her only a second to abandon the closed tube on the nightstand before he takes her wrist in his hand and hauls it above her head, pinning it to the bed with his left as his right strokes too-soft over the curve of her waist.  He begins with a gentle, maddening trail of kisses across her jaw, traversing a familiar path down her neck to the juncture of her shoulder; his lips brush over her pulse like a tease before his teeth follow, sinking sharp into pale skin and Natasha doesn’t bother to hold in the sound, knows he needs to hear it almost as much as she needs to release it.

<”Mine.”> 

And it echoes, against her throat, her collarbones, the valley between her breasts, in English and in Russian and sometimes with no words at all, again and again and again as he makes his way over and across her skin, possessing her in a way she would never,  _never_  have wanted with anyone else.  Marking her.

_Mine.  Mine mine mine. **Mine.**_

He’s careful to avoid the silk of her lingerie, and it’s a small gesture that seems indescribable in the moment, one of the million tiny considerations they give one another, that they allow each other because neither of them had ever been afforded such a luxury before.  James makes his way over her stomach, pausing to nuzzle each of her hips, nudging his nose against the front of her panties before leaving a last kiss on each of her thighs, the stain of the lipstick barely noticeable on her skin even if each brush of his lips still feels like heat and ice and something all-consuming. 

Natasha’s hand threads through his hair once he’s settled on his stomach between her thighs, his palms sliding carefully over her hips, gentle fingertips tracing the scarlet path he’d taken over her body slowly, as if he fears, sometimes, that he’ll forget.

She doesn’t have to see it, to know that it’s there.  What it means.  

But - sometimes he does.  

She brushes a stray lock of hair away from his forehead, her fingers carding through it slowly, and gathers his left hand away from her ribs to lift it over her heart instead, covering it with her own.

<”Yours.”>


End file.
